


More Sharp Than Filèd Steel

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 01:05:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7338343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Just over a year ago she’d asked him to follow her, and like a fool he had hesitated. Not for long, but long enough for her to telegram for him to stay in Melbourne. The letter that followed had explained further--there was a crash in the American stock market and disaster was looming; she needed to focus on the matters at hand.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>This was, quite possibly, the biggest risk he’d ever taken.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>--------</p>
<p>In the European autumn on 1930, Jack takes a journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sarahtoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/gifts).



> So, without going into TOO many details of my in-progress long fic, I shared the prologue with @omgimsarahtoo. And she made me promise that I would write THIS fic as an AU. So I did. Title comes from Twelfth Night.

Jack disembarked the train, small valise in hand, and began to walk towards his hotel down the road. It was a tiny hamlet; a train station, a small hotel and pub, and one shop that no doubt served as the post office as well. A taxi had been arranged—or was supposed to have been arranged—to take him from the hotel to the Fisher estate in twenty minutes. The train had been delayed due to leaves on the line; he’d not have time to shower as he’d intended, but it would give him less time to fret. This was, quite possibly, the biggest risk he’d ever taken.

Just over a year ago she’d asked him to follow her, and like a fool he had hesitated. Not for long, but long enough for her to telegram for him to stay in Melbourne. The letter that followed had explained further—there was a crash in the American stock market and disaster was looming; she needed to focus on the matters at hand.

They’d written frequently, and a sort of melancholy had begun to pervade her every letter. He’d tried to dismiss it as his own sadness at their distance, until Dot Collins had steamed into his office one afternoon and insisted he came to dinner at Wardlow that evening. He’d gone, mostly out of curiosity but with a healthy respect for Mrs. Collins’s ire, and found most of the people he thought of as Phryne’s family there.

Over the meal—Mr. Butler even joined them, which was oddly unnerving and yet welcome—Mrs. Collins had laid it out. Miss Fisher was, from her letters, utterly miserable. Mac had agreed in her usual curt manner, and Jack had admitted that he’d noticed a certain lack of lustre as of late. Mrs. Stanley had, with her usual forthrightness, declared that something must be done.

“The question is, what do we do about it?” Mrs. Collins had said in a tone that made it clear that she had Very Firm Ideas of What They Should Do About It. From the look she exchanged with the rest of the table, it was clear that discussions had been ongoing. “Inspector—”

“I believe at this point you can safely call me Jack, Mrs. Collins.”

She had shaken her head.

“It wouldn’t be right, inspector. However, you are our likeliest hope. I cannot travel—” she had gestured to her heavily-pregnant self, “—and neither can Hugh. Miss would dismiss Mr. Butler on sight for what we are about to suggest. Doctor MacMillan cannot get the leave, and Mrs. Stanley’s health won’t permit the journey. Which leaves you, I’m afraid.”

And that was how Jack found himself in England, ready to show up on Phryne Fisher’s doorstep without so much as a telegram and a plan that boiled down to “Convince her to return home.” There was a very real chance this was going to go to hell by dinnertime.

He shifted his bag to his other hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d been in England for all of six hours and he already hated the damn place; it was cold, damp, grey, and held a hold over Miss Fisher he had very little chance of releasing.

 

———

 

The estate wasn’t quite as large as he expected. The house was a humourless, imposing thing hunkered down against the rolling hills of Somerset, better suited to some ridiculous novel than as a home for someone like Miss Fisher. The servant that answered the door was much the same; he gave Jack a disapproving once over, and tsked when Jack had no card to produce. Jack really had no interest in his approval and returned the gaze levelly.

“I’ll inquire whether Miss Fisher is home for visitors, Mr. Robinson,” the man said, escorting Jack into a parlour to wait.

It was a deliberate slight, not using his title, but one that might benefit Jack. Robinson was the sort of surname that she’d hear a hundred times without assuming that it was him. Which was clearly the case, as a moment later he heard her familiar light-hearted footsteps and she bounded into the room.

She froze when she saw him, an unreadable expression on her face. She was virtually unchanged—her hair was slightly longer than usual, as if she’d not had the time to get it cut, and he didn’t recognise the outfit, but she could have just as easily been in Melbourne.

Jack stood, realising his hat was still on his head and removing it.

“Miss—”

“I told you not to come,” she said, her voice flat. “Leave, Jack.”

“Miss—”

“Just leave. Now. Before I have Wilkins escort you.”

Jack reached into his pocket, where the bundle of letters from Australia rested. He could leave those, at least, even if she’d prefer never to see him again. It was a his last choice though; he’d hoped to prepare her for what they contained, pleas from all her family to return.

“Phryne, I—”

“Get _out_ , Jack! How _dare_ you show up on my doorstep? Do you have any idea—” her lips tightened, then she sighed. “Just, get out.”

He’d fucked this up before he’d gotten out a single sentence. All the carefully constructed words flew from his mind.

“Can I use your telephone?” he asked instead.

He could mail the letters to her from the village, return to Southampton for the next ship home.

She nodded curtly, motioned towards the device in the corner. He crossed the room towards it, spoke with the hotel proprietor and asked for a taxi to be sent.

“Three hours?” he said incredulously.

“Sorry, duck, but Stephen was running you up to the Fisher place and then he’s gone until six.”

“Thank you,” Jack responded tersely, and said goodbye. The walk back to the hotel was a good four or five miles, and he didn’t trust the clouds. He hoped he could remember the way—there hadn’t been many turns, at least. But perhaps he should leave the letters, rather than risk the English weather.

He turned; Phryne was still watching him, arms folded across her chest.

“No taxi?” she asked.

Jack shook his head. “Not until six. I’ll have to walk back.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll drive you myself.”

He opened his mouth to joke that he’d rather risk the threatening storm, but she’d already turned on her heel and stormed away. He followed her out of the room; she was out of sight, so he stood by the front door. From another room he could hear her arguing with someone.

“What do you mean ‘The Baron has the motor vehicle’?”

“He’s headed to Bath for the day, Miss Fisher.”

A growl of frustration—Phryne in England was even louder than her Australian self—and she stormed back into the hall.

“One vehicle!” she muttered. “I’m stranded in the middle of bloody nowhere with one—”

She caught sight of him and stopped.

“Change of plans, Jack. You can stay for dinner and I will return you to your hotel when Father returns, or the taxi can retrieve you. And then I never wish to see your face again. I cannot believe you _came_.”

He couldn’t quite believe it himself.

 

———

 

She had shown Jack into a small library and left him there, saying that Wilkins would see to any needs he had, and he was free to help himself to any book on the shelves. He didn’t see her again until the butler escorted him to dinner.

The dining room was practically cavernous, and the table could easily sit thirty instead of three.

“Father’s late,” Phryne said, barely glancing towards Jack as he entered.

“Punctuality it clearly a family trait, Miss Fisher,” he replied dryly, as he would have before her trip.

The other person at the table—no doubt Phryne’s mother, though Jack didn’t note any resemblance between the two—snorted.

“One of the many my husband and daughter share,” she said. “Phryne says that you are a policeman from Australia?”

“Ahh, yes,” Jack said. “Pardon my manners. Jack Robinson. I’m a…” he grappled for a word, “I’m Miss Fisher’s colleague.”

“You must be an exceptionally devoted colleague to have travelled all this way,” Margaret Fisher said.

“I was in England on other matters,” he lied. “Visiting my mother’s family in London. I offered to deliver letters from Miss Fisher’s staff, since I was so near.”

It was an utterly nonsensical lie, one that every one of them in the room could see right through. But the baroness graciously nodded her head and indicated that he should take the seat next to her. It left him directly across from Phryne, who kept her eyes downward.

“I really did not mean to be an inconvenience,” he said, speaking to Margaret but glancing towards Phryne.

“You’re never an inconvenience, Jack,” Phryne said quietly. “Many, many things, including too convinced of your own righteousness, but not an inconvenience.”

“Still, I should not have come.”

“Nonsense,” said the baroness. “Phryne always appreciates news from Australia. She expected to return much sooner than this, but—”

“Mother!”

Margaret rolled her eyes.

“Honestly, Phryne, this whole affair has been a mess from start to finish. First you decide to fly your father home and come back to half of London in hysterics over the American stock market, then your return has been—”

“Enough, mother. Jack really does not care about the minute details of the estate’s finances.”

Her letters had hinted enough—things were dire, and every fire she put out seemed to bring about three more. And she had no intention of letting the estate fail—it included several small businesses and farms, and the consequences would be harder on the poor people working for a living than any real damage to the Fishers themselves. But she was clearly miserable.

“Have you spent much time in London since your return?” Jack asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Not nearly enough,” Phryne replied, and she actually looked at him and smiled. “There is not nearly enough decent company in Somerset, either. Can’t find a decent waltzing partner anywhere.”

He smiled back. He was under no delusion that she had forgiven him for his presumptuous behaviour—he hoped she would at least allow him to state his case before he left for the evening—but it was something. Wilkins came on and served the first course.

 

———

 

The truly remarkable—and slightly galling—thing about Phryne Fisher was that she was so remarkably easy to talk with that it was nearly impossible to stay out of step with her for any length of time. A fact proven once more by dinner; she was stiff and Jack was awkward even after the extended olive branch, but by the time Wilkins served a sherry trifle for dessert they had found their familiar give-and-take banter and Phryne was laughing and animated. Jack chuckled at a particularly amusing anecdote about a party she had attended during one of her trips to London, suppressing the spike of jealousy when she mentioned her escort for the evening; it was not why he was in England, and really he was thankful that she was finding some enjoyment in her time.

When dinner was over and there was still no sign of Henry Fisher, Jack excused himself and asked to use the telephone once more. Miss Fisher rose and followed him to the parlour, where he ordered the taxi and was told it would be 45 minutes or so. He thanked the hotel proprietor and placed the receiver back down.

“I think there’s one taxi for miles,” Phryne smiled apologetically, sitting on a chaise. She touched the space beside her, offering it to him; Jack took the armchair instead. There were some temptations not even he could withstand.

They sat for a moment in silence, then she stood.

“Whiskey?”

“Always.”

It was an awful idea; when she passed him the tumbler her fingers brushed against his, entirely by accident, and when he met her eyes there was a melancholy distance to them.

“Why did you come, Jack?” she asked quietly.

“Your letters…” he tried to find the words to explain why her family had decided to intervene, “caused a great deal of worry in Melbourne.”

“Why did _you_ come?”

Explaining that he was the only one available for the journey was on the tip of his tongue, but that was the excuse. The reason…

“My desire, more sharp than filèd steel, did spur me forth,” he said under his breath.

“Jack?”

Her eyes were guarded, but curious. He offered a wan smile.

“You were unhappy, Miss Fisher. Miserable, even, judging by your letters. And as much as I _wanted_ to see you—and I did, very much—it was… as your friend, I could not leave you to face this alone, whatever the reason for it was. Not when I had another choice.”

He realised abruptly that their fingers were still touching, the tumbler of whiskey between them. Jack took it, trying not to notice the absence of her touch as he did so.

“I… I believe I overstepped, but it was with good intentions, Miss Fisher, and I have no regrets about that.” He drank his whiskey quickly, her eyes on him the entire time, and stood. “I will not leave you alone to face this unless you tell me to. Say the word and I'll head back to Melbourne tomorrow. But until then, I am here as your friend.”  

He pulled the letters from his jacket pocket; it was a thick packet.

“These are for you, from those who are waiting for you to come home,” he said. “Please, read them.”

And with that, he nodded his head and headed outside to wait for his taxi.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do so hope that the resolution pleases you; I think people imagined a much more complex situation!

Phryne watched Jack leave, fingers tightening to the point of pain around the envelopes he’d handed her, and wished she could remuster the anger she’d felt when she’d first seen him. She should have just let him walk back to the village—it hadn’t rained in the end. Instead she’d let him stay, and her precarious equilibrium was in danger once more.

She could send him away; she had no doubt that he would, since he’d given his word. But she found that she wanted nothing more than to sit with him and discuss the estate situation as if it were one of their cases, and possibly, finally, give in to all that he had promised with quiet words and swallow pins. But that was a long time ago, and she could not afford the concession.

She never should have flown her father home. It had been one disaster after another ever since, and all for naught. Henry hadn’t changed; her parents' true reconciliation had lasted all of six weeks, and now they were back to her mother alternating between coddling his bad moods, shouting at him that she was finished, and stony silences. She tried, in those lulls when she could almost believe that she could return to Melbourne if she fixed just one more thing, to convince her mother to return as well.  To no avail, but if she couldn’t fix her parents’ marriage she could at least ensure her mother was happy.

Phryne sat on the chaise, realising she’d not touched the drink she’d left there and taking a sip. The letters were still in her hand; she placed her whiskey back on the table and untied the string holding them together to rifle through—Mr. Butler’s neat hand, Dot’s round and careful letters, Mac’s nearly illegible scrawl, Aunt Prudence’s precise and florid letter formations, Jane had doodled a picture on the envelope....

Laying them on the table beside her, Phryne took a deep breath. They’d written to her, of course, but seeing all of them together was another matter entirely. She wanted to go home. Desperately. She hadn’t realised how much. She hadn’t _allowed_ herself to realise how much.

She had just picked up one of the envelopes, placing a fingernail beneath the flap to open it, when she heard her mother cough behind her.  Phryne hurriedly tucked the letters into her cardigan pocket and turned.

Her mother was a tall woman, and deceptively solid for someone as emotionally delicate as she was.

“That’s the man your father was complaining about?” she asked, gliding into the room and taking the seat so recently occupied by Jack. Ten bloody minutes in the room and he’d stamped himself across it. He may as well have scrawled ‘Jack Robinson was here’ above the mantelpiece.

“Yes,” Phryne said.

“He’s very handsome.”

Phryne laughed. “He was married when we met, Mother.”

“Ahh, and he’s a man that sticks to his vows?”

“Precisely. We are—we _were_ friends and colleagues, maybe even partners if I’m feeling fanciful. But if you’re looking to construct some tragic love story, you’re better served looking elsewhere.”

Margaret nodded, then reached out and took Phryne’s drink from the table.

“You have much better taste in whiskey than your father, darling,” she said taking a sip. “But you’re a worse liar.”

“You would know,” Phryne replied tersely. “He does make a point of giving you so many examples to judge from.”

“Not this again, Phryne.”

“Yes, ‘this again’ Mother. When are you going to see that Father—” _Father would make this journey for himself, never for you._ “On second thought, I think I’ll head to my room.”

She stood, hand flying to her pocket to ensure the letters did not fall out, and headed for the door. Her mother’s voice stopped her at the door; never say that Margaret Fisher did not appreciate a flair for the dramatic.

“You know, Phryne, I haven’t seen you smile like that since you’ve come home.”

“This isn’t my home, Mother. And I’ve smiled plenty.”

 

——— 

 

She read the letters. Repeatedly. Allowed herself to cry at the photograph of Jane on a weekend away with Ruth and her grandmother, and laugh uproariously about Mac’s story about a nurse’s first day on the job. Noted how each one asked her to come home in their own way. Triple-checked that there was no letter from Jack—of course not; she was being foolish—and wished she’d… _what_? Listened to him? What good would it have done, in the end? She had _obligations_ here; to her mother, to the families that relied on her father's land and businesses.

“ _My desire, more sharp than filèd steel, did spur me forth_ ,” Jack had said.

A quotation. Shakespeare, if she wasn’t mistaken; she was fairly certain she knew where to find it. Not a letter, but perhaps an unwittingly given mystery. She carefully folded away the correspondences, placing them in the box that contained every telegram and letter she’d gotten from Melbourne since she’d left. Drew herself to her full height; she was Phryne Fisher, and it was about time she began acting like it.

She slipped from her room into the library, selecting a copy of _Twelfth Night_ from the shelves. It was when Antonio had followed his friend Sebastian—Phryne had very strong opinions about exactly what sort of friends they were—to Illyria, where he was a wanted man. Ahh, there. Act three, scene three.

  

> _I could not stay behind you. My desire,_  
>  _More sharp than filèd steel, did spur me forth._  
>  _And not all love to see you, though so much_  
>  _As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,_  
>  _But jealousy what might befall your travel,_  
>  _Being skilless in these parts, which to a stranger,_  
>  _Unguided and unfriended, often prove_  
>  _Rough and unhospitable. My willing love,_  
>  _The rather by these arguments of fear,_  
>  _Set forth in your pursuit._

 Well, if that wasn’t a declaration then nothing ever was. Not necessarily a romantic one—she was not certain she had it in her to contemplate the possibility in her current state—but a declaration that perfectly matched his own words on the matter. Her family wanted her to come home. Jack, practical and stalwart and knowing that might not be possible, had come to her as an ally instead.

She brought the book with her when she returned to her bedroom, and began to draft a list of all the things she would need to achieve before she could return to Melbourne. The list was long. Possibly unachievable. But it was a start.

She slept well for the first time in months.

When she woke, the book was still in her hands, her list marking the spot of Antonio’s exchange. In the light of day and a large breakfast, the list was not so imposing; half could be knocked off simply by hiring a decent business manager, and another portion by careful estate planning. She'd been so caught up in the small details she had not looked at the bigger picture in months, and things were not as desperate as they had once been.

She placed telephone calls to arrange both the estate manager and the solicitor, then took the car—a sedate thing she did not care for—into the village. There was only one hotel of any description, so she swanned in with false confidence and secured the details to Jack's room. It was late—almost noon—but she hoped he would still be in.

She knocked on the door. When he opened it, she smiled at him and hoped he didn't see how tremulous it was.

“My honourable Jack,” she said. “I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks.”

He smiled.

 

———

 

They had lunch in the pub, then walked on the path by the river. She took his arm as she had so many times in Melbourne, even before they had been anything more than friends, and curled her hand around his bicep. The feel of his coat beneath her fingers, the smells of Melbourne trapped in the fabric… it made her miss home more than ever.

As they walked he told her how his visit had come to pass, his words light but his eyes dark.

“And your job, Jack?”

“Will most likely be there. I entrusted it to the care of Mrs. Stanley.”

Phryne laughed to keep from crying; how big a risk for him to take, presented without fanfare or expectations.

“In that case,” she said, looking up at him through lowered lashes, “I suppose I had better return to Melbourne. For your sake.”

It was an illusion he saw through; she read it in the squint of his eyes, the clench of his jaw. But he let it pass with nothing more than a tilt of his head and a barely-there smile. She might have kissed him, if the sky hadn’t opened up at that exact moment. She shrieked at the cold rain; in her rush that morning, she had not chosen an outfit that could withstand the sudden onslaught. An instant later Jack was shucking off his coat to offer her, but she stopped him with a grasp of his lapel.

“Your chivalry supercedes your common sense,” she laughed, reaching out to clasp his hand in hers and pull him beneath a tree.

It kept them mostly dry—the leaves had not yet fallen for the autumn, and the canopy was full—but not warm. She moved towards the trunk of the tree, felt the bark against her back; he followed—she’d not released his hand, a fact she had failed to notice—and stood in front of her, so close they were sharing body heat. Phryne looked up, parted her lips, wanted so badly to kiss him.

“Not like this, Phryne,” he whispered, pleading.

_Then how?_ she wanted to say. _And when? Because I am tired of waiting._ She smiled instead, tugged him a little closer, her hand still around his. His free hand came up, cupped her face. His thumb stroked her cheek; it was a far more intimate touch than it had any right to be.

“When you are home. When you’re not alone. When…”

_When you can be certain_.

She breathed deeply, acknowledged the wisdom in his words. Wished he’d stop being so noble for just one moment. They stood in silence instead, allowed the weight to settle between them.

“You know that I might have decided never to speak to you again,” she said eventually.

“I know.”

“I don’t need to be rescued.”

A tiny hint of a smile. “I know that too. And if there’d been another way….”

She knew. The rain stopped. Finally she stirred.

“I think we can go back now,” she said quietly.

 

———

 

Back in town, she directed him to the her father’s car and deposited him into the passenger seat.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that country roads dampen your ardour for obscene speeds?” he asked.

“Far too much, Jack,” she said cheerfully, starting the car. “But it’s a closed roof, so you won’t even need to hold onto your hat.”

“I’m not certain I’ll hold onto my lunch.”

“You really are the worst passenger,” she chided, smiling broadly. “I’ll have you know that I haven’t had a ticket in months.”

“No doubt the local constabulary has given up.”

“Well, with any luck I won’t be their problem for long.”

He didn’t miss her meaning.

“Good,” was all he said, “Melbourne was becoming terribly dull.”

As they drove—at a perfectly sedate pace; the rain had left the roads in poor shape and she was not foolhardy—she informed him of what she would need to accomplish. He listened and made suggestions; he had neither her experience or her business acumen, but he was intelligent and impartial and raised some possibilities she was too ensnarled to see.  

“Of course, this will take money from my own accounts to set up,” she said. “I’ll have no choice but to economise, at least temporarily. How do you feel about the second best whiskey in Melbourne?”

“It’s the quality of the company, not the drink,” he said, a smile playing on his lips. “And if it’s too dire, I can always bring my own.”

When they arrived at the house, Phryne parked the motorcar.

“Thank you, Jack,” she said quietly.

“It wasn’t just me.”

“I know. And I’ll thank everyone in turn. But you’re here and so you’re first. I became so caught up in—”

His fingers flexed around hers. She hadn’t realised that she’d reached for him.

“None of us are entirely impartial when it’s our family,” he said quietly.

Phryne huffed a laugh.

“Come in, have a drink,” she said, disentangling her hand from his. “We've both earnt it. Mother is going to be insufferable.”

 

———

 

Over the next few days, Phryne hired a business manager, put a sum of her own money into a trust, made arrangements for any foreseeable eventuality, and organised transportation home via ocean liner, all before informing her father of her intentions. She had no interest in hearing his opinion or his guilt-inducing reasons for her to stay. Jack, for his part, visited for a few hours each day and left after, and spent his free time exploring the nearby countryside; Phryne managed to secure a push bike for this purpose, and he often cycled between the estate and the village. She appreciated that he did not attempt to resolve things for her; he listened and offered his opinions when asked, but otherwise gave her the time and space to execute her duties.

A week after Jack’s arrival, he came for lunch; afterwards Phryne informed him that their ship would sail in three days time.

“There’s nothing for it, I’ll have to tell Father today,” she muttered.

The look he gave her was soft and understanding, with no hint of pity.

“Would you like me to stay?”

_No_ was on the tip of her tongue, habit more than anything. He had asked before, that day he had waltzed her at The Grand, and she had insisted on handling it herself. Because she could. She also knew she didn’t need to; after the year she had had, it was welcome knowledge.

“Yes, please,” she said quietly. “I would like that very much.”

He gave a tentative smile and squeezed her hand, then tipped his head to the parlour where her father was sitting.

“Lead the way, Miss Fisher.”

**Author's Note:**

> Jack is quoting from this exchange in Twelfth Night:
>
>> ANTONIO  
> I could not stay behind you. My desire,  
> More sharp than filèd steel, did spur me forth.  
> And not all love to see you, though so much  
> As might have drawn one to a longer voyage,  
> But jealousy what might befall your travel,  
> Being skilless in these parts, which to a stranger,  
> Unguided and unfriended, often prove  
> Rough and unhospitable. My willing love,  
> The rather by these arguments of fear,  
> Set forth in your pursuit.
>> 
>> SEBASTIAN  
> My kind Antonio,  
> I can no other answer make but thanks,  
> And thanks, and ever thanks. And oft good turns  
> Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay.  
> But were my worth as is my conscience, firm,  
> You should find better dealing. What’s to do?  
> Shall we go see the relics of this town?
> 
> And the No Fear Shakespeare translation of Antonio's words:  
>  _I couldn’t stay behind after you left. I just felt a sharp desire to follow you. It wasn’t just that I wanted to see you, though I very much did want that. I was also worried about what might happen to you while you were traveling, since you’re not familiar with this area, and it’s rough and unwelcoming to a stranger with no guide. I followed you because I love you and I was worried about you._
> 
> Rather fitting, I think.


End file.
